Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III (31 page)

Read Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III Online

Authors: Orson Scott Card

BOOK: Prentice Alvin: The Tales of Alvin Maker, Volume III
11.71Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
“It’s true,” said Arthur. “I remember.”
Goody Guester started looking even more upset. But Alvin knew better than to argue with Arthur about this blackbird idea he had, and about him flying once. The only way to stop Arthur talking about it was to get his mind on something else. “Better come with me, Arthur Stuart,” said Alvin. “Maybe you got a blackbird mama sometime in your past, but I have a feeling your mama here in this kitchen is about to knead you like dough.”
“Don’t forget what I need you to buy for me,” said Old Peg.
“Oh, don’t worry. I got a list,” said Alvin.
“I didn’t see you write a thing!”
“Arthur Stuart’s my list. Show her, Arthur.”
Arthur leaned close to Alvin’s ear and shouted so loud it like to split Alvin’s eardrums right down to his ankles. “A keg of wheat flour and two cones of sugar and a pound of pepper and a dozen sheets of paper and a couple of yards of cloth that might do for a shirt for Arthur Stuart.”
Even though he was shouting, it was his mama’s own voice.
She purely hated it when he mimicked her, and so here she came with the stirring fork in one hand and a big old cleaver in the other. “Hold still, Alvin, so I can stick the fork in his mouth and shave off a couple of ears!”
“Save me!” cried Arthur Stuart.
Alvin saved him by running away, at least till he got to the back door. Then Old Peg set down her instruments of boy-butchery and helped Alvin bundle Arthur Stuart up in coats and leggings and boots and scarves till he was about as big around as he was tall. Then Alvin pitched him out the door into the snow and rolled him with his foot till he was covered with snow.
Old Peg barked at him from the kitchen door. “That’s right. Alvin Junior, freeze him to death right before his own mother’s eyes, you irresponsible prentice boy you!”
Alvin and Arthur Stuart just laughed. Old Peg told them to be careful and get home before dark and then she slammed the door tight.
They hitched up the sleigh, then swept out the new snow that had blown in while they were hitching it and got in and pulled up the lap robe. They first went on down to the forge again to pick up the work Alvin had to deliver—mostly hinges and fittings and tools for carpenters and leatherworkers in town, who were all in the midst of their busiest season of the year. Then they headed out for town.
They didn’t get far before they caught up to a man trudging townward—and none too well dressed, either, for weather like this. When they were beside him and could see his face, Alvin wasn’t surprised to see it was Mock Berry.
“Get on this sleigh, Mock Berry, so I won’t have your death on my conscience,” said Alvin.
Mock locked at Alvin like his words was the first Mock even noticed somebody was there on the road, even though he’d just been passed by the horses, snorting and stamping through the snow. “Thank you, Alvin,” said the man. Alvin slid over on the seat to make room. Mock climbed up beside him—clumsy, cause his hands were cold. Only when he was sitting down did he seem to notice Arthur Stuart sitting on the bench. And then it was like somebody slapped him—he started to get right back down off the sleigh.
“Now hold on!” said Alvin. “Don’t tell me you’re just as stupid as the White folks in town, refusing to sit next to a mixup boy! Shame on you!”
Mock looked at Alvin real steady for a long couple of seconds before he decided how to answer. “Look here, Alvin Smith, you know me better than that. I know how such mixup children come to be, and I don’t hold against them what some White man done to their mama. But there’s a story in town about who’s the real mama of this child, and it does me no good to be seen coming into town with this child nearby.”
Alvin knew the story well enough—how Arthur Stuart was supposedly the child of Mock’s wife Anga, and how, since Arthur was plainly fathered by some White man, Mock refused even to have the boy in his town house. which led to Goody Guester taking Arthur in. Alvin also knew the story wasn’t true But in a town like this it was better to have such a story believed than to have the true story guessed at. Alvin wouldn’t put it past some folks to try to get Arthur Stuart declared a slave and shipped on south just to be rid of him so there’d be no more trouble about schools and such.
“Never mind about that,” said Alvin. “Nobody’s going to see you on a day like this, and even if they do, Arthur looks like a wad of cloth, and not a boy at all. You can hop off soon as we get into town.” Alvin leaned out and took Mock’s arm and pulled him onto the seat. “Now pull up the lap robe and snuggle close so I don’t have to take you to the undertaker on account of having froze to death.”
“Thank you kindly, you persnickety uppity prentice boy.” Mock pulled the lap robe up so high that it covered Arthur Stuart completely. Arthur yelled and pulled it down again so he could see over the top. Then he gave Mock Berry such a glare that it might have burnt him to a cinder, if he hadn’t been so cold and wet.
When they got into town, there was sleighs a-plenty, but none of the merriment of the first heavy snowfall. Folks just went about their business, and the horses stood and waited, stamping their feet and snorting and steaming in the cold wind. The lazier sort of folks—the lawyers and clerks and such—they were all staying at home on a day like this. But the people with real work to do, they had their fires hot, their workshops busy, their stores open for business. Alvin made his rounds a-dropping off ironwork with the folks who’d called for it. They all put their signature on Makepeace’s delivery book—one more slight, that he wouldn’t trust Alvin to take cash, like he was a nine-year-old prentice boy and not more than twice that age.
On those quick errands, Arthur Stuart stayed bundled up on the sleigh—Alvin never stayed indoors long enough to warm up from the walk between sleigh and front door. It wasn’t till they got to Pieter Vanderwoort’s general store that it was worth going inside and warming up for a spell. Pieter had his stove going right hot, and Alvin and Arthur wasn’t the first to think of warming up there. A couple of boys from town were there warming their feet and sipping tea with a nip or two from a flask in order to keep warm. They weren’t any of the boys Alvin spent much time with. He’d throwed them once or twice, but that was true of every male creature in town who was willing to rassle. Alvin knew that these two—Martin, that was the one with pimples, and the other one was Daisy—I know that sounds like a crazy name for anyone but a cow, but that was his name all right—anyway, Alvin knew that these two boys were the kind who like to set cats afire and make nasty jokes about girls behind their back. Not the kind that Alvin spent much time with, but not any that he had any partickler dislike for, neither. So he nodded them good afternoon, and they nodded him
back. One of them held up his flask to share, but Alvin said no thanks and that was that.
At the counter, Alvin pulled off some of his scarves, which felt good because he was so sweaty underneath; then he set to unwinding Arthur Stuart, who spun around like a top while Alvin pulled on the end of each scarf. Arthur’s laughing brought Mr. Vanderwoort out from the back, and he set to laughing, too.
“They’re so cute when they’re little, aren’t they,” said Mr. Vanderwoort.
“He’s just my shopping list today, aren’t you, Arthur?”
Arthur Stuart spouted out his list right off. using his Mama’s voice again. “A keg of wheat flour and two cones of sugar and a pound of pepper and a dozen sheets of paper and a couple of yards of cloth that might do for a shirt for Arthur Stuart.”
Mr. Vanderwoort like to died laughing. “I get such a kick out of that boy, the way he talks like his mama.”
One of the boys by the stove gave a whoop.
“I mean his adopted mama, of course,” said Vanderwoort.
“Oh, she’s probably his mama all right!” said Daisy. “I hear Mock Berry does a
lot
of work up to the roadhouse!”
Alvin just set his jaw against the answer that sprang to mind. Instead he hotted up the flask in Daisy’s hand, so Daisy whooped again and dropped it.
“You come on back with me, Arthur Stuart,” said Vanderwoort.
“Like to burned my hand off!” muttered Daisy.
“You just say the list over again, bit by bit, and I’ll get what’s wanted,” said Vanderwoort. Alvin lifted Arthur over the counter and Vanderwoort set him down on the other side.
“You must’ve set it on the stove like the blamed fool you are, Daisy,” said Martin. “What is it, whiskey don’t warm you up less it’s boiled?”
Vanderwoort led Arthur into the back room. Alvin took a couple of soda crackers from the barrel and pulled up a stool near the fire.
“I didn’t set it anywheres near the stove,” said Daisy.
“Howdy, Alvin,” said Martin.
“Howdy, Martin, Daisy,” said Alvin. “Good day for stoves.”
“Good day for nothing,” muttered Daisy. “Smart-mouth pickaninnies and burnt fingers.”
“What brings you to town, Alvin?” asked Martin. “And how come you got that baby buck with you? Or did you buy him off Old Peg Guester?”
Alvin just munched on his cracker. It was a mistake to punish Daisy for what he said before, and a worse mistake to do it again. Wasn’t it trying to punish folks that brought the Unmaker down on him last summer? No, Alvin was working on curbing his temper, so he said nothing. Just broke off pieces of the cracker with his mouth.
“That boy ain’t for sale,” said Daisy. “Everybody knows it. Why, she’s even trying to educate him, I hear.”
“I’m educating my dog, too,” said Martin. “You think that boy’s learnt him how to beg or point game or anything useful?”
“But you got yourself the advantage there, Marty,” said Daisy. “A dog’s got him enough brains to know he’s a dog, so he don’t try to learn how to read. But you get one of these hairless monkeys, they get to thinking they’re people, you know what I mean?”
Alvin got up and walked to the counter. Vanderwoort was coming back now, arms full of stuff. Arthur was tagging along behind.
“Come on behind the counter with me, Al,” said Vanderwoort. “Best if you pick out the cloth for Arthur’s shirt.”
“I don’t know a thing about cloth,” said Alvin.
“Well, I know about cloth but I don’t know about what Old Peg Guester likes, and if she ain’t happy with what you come home with, I’d rather it be your fault than mine.”
Alvin hitched his butt up onto the counter and swung his legs over. Vanderwoort led him back and they spent a few minutes picking out a plaid flannel that looked suitable enough and might also be tough enough to make patches on old trousers out of the leftover scraps. When they came back, Arthur Stuart was over by the fire with Daisy and Martin.
“Spell ‘sassafras,’” said Daisy.
“Sassafras,” said Arthur Stuart, doing Miss Larner’s voice as perfect as ever. “S-A-S-S-A-F-R-A-S.”
“Was he right?” asked Martin.
“Beats hell out of me.”
“Now don’t be using words like that around a child,” said Vanderwoort.
“Oh. never you mind,” said Martin. “He’s our pet pickaninny. We won’t do him no harm.”
“I’m not a pickaninny,” said Arthur Stuart. “I’m a mixup boy.”
“Well, ain’t that the truth!” Daisy’s voice went so loud and high that his voice cracked.
Alvin was just about fed up with them. He spoke real soft, so only Vanderwoort could hear him. “One more whoop and I’ll fill that boy’s ears with snow.”
“Now don’t get riled,” said Vanderwoort. “They’re harmless enough.”
“That’s why I won’t kill him.” But Alvin was smiling, and so was Vanderwoort. Daisy and Martin were just playing, and since Arthur Stuart was enjoying it, why not?
Martin picked something off a shelf and brought it over to Vanderwoort. “What’s this word?” he asked.
“Eucalyptus,” said Vanderwoort.
“Spell ‘eucalipidus,’ mixup boy.”
“Eucalyptus,” said Arthur. “E-U-C-A-L-Y-P-T-U-S.”
“Listen to that!” cried Daisy. “That teacher lady won’t give time of day to us, but here we got her own voice spelling whatever we say.”
“Spell ‘bosoms,’” said Martin.
“Now that’s going too far,” said Vanderwoort. “He’s just a boy.”
“I just wanted to hear the teacher lady’s voice saying it,” said Martin.
“I know what you wanted, but that’s behind-the-barn talk, not in my general store.”
The door opened and, after a blast of cold wind, Mock Berry came in, looking tired and half-froze, which of course he was.
The boys took no notice. “Behind the barn don’t got a stove,” said Daisy.
“Then keep that in mind when you decide how to talk,” said Vanderwoort.
Alvin watched how Mock Berry took sidelong glances at the stove, but made no move to go over there. No man in his right mind would choose not to go to the stove on a day like this—but Mock Berry knew there was worse things than being cold. So instead he just walked up to the counter.
Vanderwoort must’ve known he was there, but for a while he just kept on watching Martin and Daisy play spelling games with Arthur Stuart, paying no mind to Mock Berry.

Other books

Villains by Rhiannon Paille
Girl With Guitar by Caisey Quinn
Vengeance Is Mine by Joanne Fluke
Rose Daughter by Robin McKinley
Lost Girl: Part 1 by Elodie Short
The Healer's Touch by Lori Copeland
Veil of Darkness by Gillian White